The city lay crumpled in the quiet corner.
The sun slid below the unfinished house
The white ghosts had still time to return.
Pulse-beating hearts, thought-abhorrent,
Beat in the very depths of their rib-cages
In onrush of blood and oxygen-seekings.
A few frames mattered and horizons’ tilts
The artist looked for exactness of science
You know we seek ghosts in quiet time.
Our graphic eye sought nature of things
In white balances and phosphorescence.
Beauty eludes pursuing pixel- perfection.